


Here Comes the Night Time

by stormwalkers



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: (for reproductive purposes), Baby Planning, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Jessica is a gremlin, Married Life, Pre-Canon, References to Canon, Romance, bonus points if you spot them all, eerily prophetic banter, lockwood's parents were nerds!!! nerrrrrrrrds!!!!!!!!!, unavoidable hints of tragedy, unnecessarily detailed studies in problem bureaucracy and academics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwalkers/pseuds/stormwalkers
Summary: Though the day’s warmth was gone and instinct was telling him to stay alert, to be on his guard, to fear the darkness and the things it feeds—he felt completely at ease.Celia, Donald, and a reed hut in New Guinea. Pre-series.
Relationships: Celia Lockwood/Donald Lockwood
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	Here Comes the Night Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lockwoodstie (PilotInTheStars)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilotInTheStars/gifts).



At one point or another, there may have been a crack mathematician or renowned physicist or Russian chess prodigy with a quicker mind than Celia Lockwood.

If so, Donald hadn’t heard of him.

Nor, for that matter, had he heard of anyone as hardworking, strong-willed, or wickedly determined. Have you ever seen a cheetah run? Fast, graceful, making it look easy. What would they think if a human being tried to run alongside them? Well, if they weren’t too distracted by sudden thoughts of dinner, they’d probably wonder why the human was so slow and awkward and stumbling to keep up.

When it came to her work, Celia was like a cheetah. Her energy was infectious, her resolve unstoppable… And yeah, she was beautiful. She was beautiful late at night, mulling over her studies—woe betide anyone foolish enough to interrupt her then—and she was beautiful in the morning, running on coffee and spite, reciting profanities that would make Donald’s old schoolmistress take to her armchair in tears. Her skin was smooth and pale as pearls. She had long legs and the sort of smile that made you want to follow her wherever she asked of you.

Most importantly, Celia Lockwood was one of the finest psychic researchers in Britain—along with Donald himself, of course. And together, they were going to unlock that great and terrible mystery known as the Problem.

At least, that was the plan.

“You know, it’s funny,” said Celia, slipping on her cotton nightgown. “In order to study the Problem in Britain, we’ve travelled to the other side of the globe.”

Donald leaned back against the mattress to stretch his legs; the palm cot creaked underneath him. “6700 miles away from the red zone, to be exact,” he said. “It’s nice to get away for a bit, I think. See the sights, explore exotic locales, go for a midnight wee without the looming threat of ghost-touch…”

“Nothing like the absence of mortal fear to help one’s concentration.” She crouched to pick up a few books and papers that lay scattered on the floor.

He sat up then. “I mean, being outside after 5 PM? Grass still warm, dusk slowly setting in? What a rush. And people were relaxed. Smiling, talking. It would have been a great moment to sit and smoke a pipe—you know, if I had owned one and been forty years older.”

She laughed softly. “Add a disapproving scowl and it’d have been like having your father back.”

Donald grimaced. “Remind me to never take up smoking, then.”

The oil lamp in the corner streaked Celia’s black hair and shone on her pale face as she grinned across at him. It was their only source of light. In London, the ghost-lamp near their house would be switching off soon. But Donald and Celia Lockwood weren’t in London—they were in Papua New Guinea.

More specifically, they were tucked inside a reed hut in the village of Kanganamun. Drowsy clouds floated in the tropical night sky. Further down, past the fringed huts where the villagers lived, rainforest swelled atop the rugged limestone peaks. Its dense thickets of green rippled in the breeze, reeds of sugarcane dancing along with their feathery tops. Nightjars were returning to their roost sites, their crimson stares piercing the night like tiny ghost-lamps. Sago and palm trees towered above like giants trying to pluck down the stars.

And there, tucked away on the far side of a narrow stream, were the spirit-huts. Their dark and smokey interiors were decorated—Donald knew—with human skulls, bone masks, and various carved totems. Unlike the iron-choked, lavender-reeking cemeteries back home, spirit-huts (or _haus tambarans_ in the local tongue) did not inspire fear or panic; rather, they inspired reverence for the dead. An ancient, otherworldly air filled these sacred spaces. Indeed, according to the tribespeople, they housed a different world entirely—the home of spirits.

And they might just hold the answer to the Problem.

The oil lamp flickered. Celia sat on the edge of the cot and began arranging her notes from the trip. If she’d ever carried less than five notebooks on her person at once, Donald hadn’t witnessed it; she combed through them now, tossing papers into messy piles. Something was on her mind, and he’d travelled with her enough times to know what.

He crept up behind, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. “You worried about getting our stuff cleared by DEPRAC?” he asked.

Celia turned her head, smiling at him. “What are you, psychic?”

“Only a psychic researcher, I’m afraid. They did give me a doctorate, though.”

“You don’t say?” Celia’s eyes widened. “You must have read _all_ the books, then.”

“A few.” He swept her long hair aside and kissed the back of her neck, letting his lips brush against the top of her spine. “Wrote a couple of them, too—dreadfully dull, every one.”

“Oh, they are. I should know. I co-wrote them.”

“Ah, cheers.”

Celia grinned, providing the dusky hut with a second source of warm light. Then she dropped her papers and spun around in his arms, and they crawled into bed, their weight dipping the mattress.

“DEPRAC has a new constable,” she said, pulling the thin blanket over them both. “He’ll be the one in charge of psychic clearance. Terribly sad-looking bloke, like a weeping bulldog.”

He thought for a moment. “Oh, the one who looks like he’s balancing a dead ferret on his upper lip?”

“You _are_ psychic. Yes, him.” She sighed, rubbing at her eyes. “It’s such a bother, Donald. We _always_ bring stuff back from our travels, and they still treat us with suspicion. We’re scholars! Not some sort of cross-border relicman duo with illegal Sources stuffed down our pants.”

“We can handle DEPRAC,” he said, smiling. “We always do, don’t we? That astonishing spirit-mask the shaman gave us will be worth the paperwork… If we can locate a bare piece of wall for it back home, that is.”

“I don’t care if there isn’t a single spot left and we have to hang it around our daughter’s neck as a scarf. That mask is coming home with us, Donald.”

“Well, _that_ might raise a few eyebrows at school.”

“Luckily for Jessica, we’re making room in the house. I’m thinking the entrance hall, next to the gourd…”

Donald smiled, listening to his wife. It was pleasantly cool in the hut; the scent of grass and tropical flowers drifted in the dewy air. New Guinea was as dazzling as ever.

The research trip had been his idea. They were working on a dissertation— _the_ dissertation.

Since the Problem began, the past had become an endless fog breathing ghost after ghost into the present. Shades of former people were cropping up from wherever they were made, dark and deadly and eternal. But what _was_ a spirit? And more importantly, what did spirits _mean_ to people around the world? It seemed to Donald a crucial thing to know, but no one did. They cared more about destroying spirits than understanding them. He didn’t blame them—the whole country lived in fear—but to him and Celia, the solution had to be rooted in humanity. They wanted to know what people _believed_. That seemed far more valuable than panic-buying the Rotwell Institute’s gadget of the month, boarding your windows with iron, and saying a prayer.

It was Donald’s love for the misty forests of Papua New Guinea that had brought them to Kanganamun. Home to the colourful and spiritual Iatmul tribe, the place was awash with ghost stories; tales of restless spirits followed the villagers like the sweep of the Sepik River. They had welcomed the Lockwoods with open hearts and friendly smiles—a nice change from Problem-era Britain, which, as Celia had once put it, seemed to run as much on fear and distrust as crops relied on rain.

The day had been long and full and rewarding. They’d witnessed wonderful dances and festivities honouring the dead. After taking part in a ceremonial gift exchange—a pair of binoculars for the famous spirit-mask—they’d retired to bed. Their guest hut was made of fragrant reeds, palm, and bamboo. It had no furniture except a cot, which they’d ringed with a few ghost-wards from home. Even thousands of miles away from the "red zone," sleeping unguarded didn’t feel right. The wards jingled like wind chimes around them; little pieces of Portland Row.

Donald thought of home now. Jessica would be at breakfast with the nanny, getting ready for school. He smiled, imagining his daughter with her puffed-up cheeks and clumsy little fists, insisting on tying her own shoes and taking forever. She could be a proper hellion in the morning, always distracted by whatever it is five-and-a-half-year-olds concern themselves with. Her knees were perpetually skinned, front teeth missing from her beaming smile.

They both missed her terribly. But looking at his wife next to him and seeing Jessica’s rounded chin, delicate nose and joyful eyes—that’s what kept Donald afloat on long journeys like this.

“I love the night time here,” Celia said softly. “Is that strange?”

Donald shook his head; he loved New Guinean nights, too. Though the day’s warmth was gone and instinct was telling him to stay alert, to be on his guard, to fear the darkness and the things it feeds—he felt completely at ease. The moon was beautiful, shining like a silver dipping pool. There was a rustling of treetops and the occasional sleepy ruffle of a bird-of-paradise; at the edge of the village, the Sepik rippled and rushed. Otherwise, all was still.

Celia had fallen quiet as well. She had a way of soaking into hushed contemplation. At home, she would play around with Jessica—the liveliest kid to ever enter Year One—for hours on end. She had the same expression now as when he’d find them curled up after playtime; a sort of contented drowsiness.

“I know that face,” he said, breaking the quiet. “That’s your I’m Thinking About Something Face.”

“I do not have an ‘I’m Thinking About Something Face,’ Donald.”

“Oh, you do. Your lips are all relaxed and your eyes have this faraway stare.”

“Considering _your_ I’m Thinking About Something Face involves your eyebrows scrunching together and your lips rucking up like the end of a drawstring bag, I could do a lot worse.”

Donald smiled. “So what are you thinking about?”

She was quiet a while. Then she lay back against the pillows. “Just the trip. This place. These people.”

“They are astonishing, aren’t they?”

“It’s funny. Ever since I was a little girl—ever since our dog got out during the night and my mother had to explain why he was blue and swollen and lifeless when we found him—I’ve wanted to study the Problem.”

“Poor Darby. He never saw that Lurker coming.”

“My point is,” Celia said, “it made me curious. I wanted to know more _._ I wanted to _understand_. But the adults didn’t have the answers. Here we are, years later, and they _still_ don’t!” She paused, catching her breath. “I’ve been studying the Problem for half my life, Donald. And in all that time, I’ve never felt closer to the heart of its mystery than I did today.”

“The spirit-huts,” Donald said, nodding. “The answers are in there. I’m sure of it.”

Celia’s eyes sparkled, catching the lamplight. “Exactly. Just think about it. What are ghosts? Dead things that don’t know they’re dead. And how would they? They _seem_ to be alive, if only at night. They used to be people.”

“And if we’re somehow stirring them up, disturbing their rest…”

“Then they’re not really _our_ Problem. We’re _theirs_.”

He smiled. “And we can do something about it.”

“One tiny issue there—we haven’t the faintest idea where to start.”

“Well,” he said softly, “I like this place for a start.”

“Me too.” She sighed wistfully. “Those huts really are like a different world. While I was in there, I forgot that I haven’t got Talent. I could _feel_ the spectral activity, Donald. I could feel _them_.”

“I know. I half expected the skull on that pike to start talking to me.”

“And did you _see_ those capes?”

He had. On their tour of the spirit-hut, the shaman had shown them a pair of ceremonial spirit-capes made of resplendent blue and purple feathers. Tiny silver links had been minutely woven into their lining, glittering like the scales of a mythical dragon. It had seemed almost sacrilegious to Donald, but the shaman had insisted they try the capes on. It had felt like being wrapped in sunlight itself, soft and silky. He didn’t know if the capes actually _worked—_ but that wasn’t the point. They were beautiful, and they had meaning.

“The Iatmul aren’t bothered by profit or power,” he said. “And they’re not scared either. They treat their ancestors with dignity and wisdom—it’s like art.”

“Not much of that left in Britain,” Celia huffed. “Fear has become an industry there. People lock their doors at night, dousing themselves in overpriced lavender and complacently trusting whatever meaningless initiative Fittes or Rotwell puts out that week. They’re not making a real difference—but as long as they turn a profit, they don’t care. Who’s to say they even _want_ the Problem solved? Say all the ghosts disappeared overnight. Where would that leave their businesses? They sell lavender-infused _toilet paper_ , for crying out loud.”

Celia’s brows were furrowed madly, her expressive lips parted. Donald looked at his wife and felt a warm rush of affection for her.

You see, like ghosts, there were two types of people in the world. Some saw locked doors and secret files and warning signs and said, “If they’re keeping it secret, it must be dangerous and none of my business.” Others said, “If they’re keeping it secret, it must be dangerous and _worth seeing._ ” Donald was a Type One; he wasn’t naive, but he knew when to lay low and keep his nose clean. He didn’t need to know everything that went on behind closed doors, and government business was government business.

Celia? She was a Type Two. Catch _her_ with a clean nose, and you’d assume something was afoot. It was her rebellious spirit and inquisitive nature that had swept Donald up since he’d met her. She was always searching for a clearer path, a better way of doing things—which came with a severe distrust in the way things actually _were._ Yes, her mind was brilliant, but even he had to admit it got too filled up with conspiracies sometimes.

“Nobody’s actively preventing the Problem from being solved, Celia,” he said.

“Perhaps not.” She shifted on the mattress. “Perhaps that’s going a bit far. But _some_ people certainly are putting a bad thing to good use.”

“True. But it’s called the bloody _Problem_ for a reason, isn’t it? It’s in everyone’s best interest that we find a way to live with it. Some people make money from it; others stockpile Andrex Three-Ply Supreme Lavender and sleep soundly believing their bums are safe from ghosts.”

Celia looked at him and laughed, tipping her head back against the pillow. Her laugh was excellent, and it was contagious. He caught her hand, brushing his thumb down her palm before bringing it to his lips.

“And hey,” he said softly. “They’re not sending kids out to fight and die for nothing. No one’s that evil.”

“You have a point.” Celia gave his hand a squeeze. A few moments passed in sweet, drowsy silence.

“Yeah. I just wish…” Donald paused.

“What?”

“I just wish it didn’t have to be that way, that’s all.” His smile turned sorrowful; he took a breath. “The agencies are meant to protect us, and we’re meant to accept that. I _guess_ I accept that. I don’t know. Then I see kids with those magnesium flares slung across their chests like bandoliers. Like they’re Mexican revolutionaries. Like they’re child soldiers.”

“Aren’t they?”

He paused. Outside their hut, the clouds had broken; a nocturnal choir of cicadas were harmonising as if singing to the ghosts.

“Sending kids out to stab things isn’t going to fix anything,” he said then. “It’s as if every time a Source is secured, another one pops up. There’s always another haunting, another ghost, another head for Hydra.”

“Another child killed on the job,” said Celia.

“That’s cheery.”

“That’s the Problem.” She put a hand to the nape of his neck, gently tugging at his hair. “But I think—I think we’re onto something here, Donald. I think we’ve got something remarkable. Something that’s going to change things. And we’re only just getting started.”

Donald’s smile mirrored his wife’s (though it wasn’t quite as luminous) as they huddled closer. She pressed her lips to his jaw, trailing soft kisses along the line of it; his hand found her waist, inching down before coming to rest at her hip.

“Speaking of getting started,” he mumbled, his smile growing into that dopey grin that only Celia could bring out.

“ _Hmm?"_ She looked up from the crook of his shoulder.

“I have an idea.”

“Uh-huh?” An exploratory palm began creeping up his chest.

“I think we should…”

“Yes?”

“…apply for a research grant from the Fittes Foundation and, if possible, present our finds to the Orpheus Society.”

Celia’s hand froze mid-climb. Cicadas chirped.

Wearing his most jovial smile, Donald continued. “To help conduct our fieldwork,” he said. “With money. And resources.”

“Yes, I rather see your point.” Her fingers drummed against the hollow of his chest. “Just didn’t think you were going to bring that up tonight. Planning for our next research trip already?”

“Don’t you think we should?”

“Probably.”

“So why are you looking at me like I’ve just suggested we have puppies for breakfast?”

Celia gave him a look. “I just don’t think we need to get involved with Fittes—or the Society.”

He raised an eyebrow. “They have the resources we need. I know how you, er, feel about Fittes, but the foundation _is_ for meeting public needs and building research capabilities to solve problems. And—well—this is _the_ Problem. The Orpheus Society will want to help, too. You just said we’ve got something unique, didn’t you? Well, we need money to present it. Travel isn’t free.”

“There are other funders out there.” Celia sighed. “Look—we believe the answer to the Problem is to be found outside of Britain. That we must look beyond the ends of our noses and examine other belief systems. And I know investors aren’t exactly lining up at the door to support that theory yet. _‘Foreign mumbo-jumbo’_ and all that. But that Orpheus lot—they’re a bit odd, aren’t they? Mixing money and idealism, science and secrecy…”

Donald frowned. The Orpheus Society boasted a respectable number of London VIP’s: John Fairfax of Fairfax Iron, lavender magnate Josiah Delawny, many authors of Problem-related works. _Some_ members were questionable—he didn’t care for Sir Nicholas Gale, a handsome lord with all the intellectual finesse of a freshly blowtorched crème brûlée—but most of them were interesting.

“They research the Problem,” he said. “We share a common goal.”

“ _Officially_. But they never publicise their works, Donald. How can we be sure they’re honest scholars? That they won’t exploit us—or worse, exploit the tribes?”

“They may be a bit eccentric, Celia, but there’s no organisation dedicated to the Problem that isn’t held in check by DEPRAC. Hell, they might even take our _‘foreign mumbo-jumbo’_ seriously—they’re philosophers. Thinkers. Not just some wealthy old kooks. Besides, they’re close associates of Penelope Fittes.”

She huffed. “I bet they are.”

“Oh, come now, darling. What’s Penelope Fittes ever done to us?”

“What’s Penelope Fittes ever done _for_ us?”

Seconds passed. They stared at each other from each side of the cot.

“You really want to join the Society, don’t you?” Celia said softly.

“ _Joining_ them might be going a bit far,” Donald replied. “I’m not about to put on a starched collar and sit around pontificating while sipping imported tea. I just want to put our work out there, you know? I want our theories to gain a foothold, or this will all be for nothing.”

“They _are_ quite good theories, aren’t they?”

“Of course. Most of them are based on your hypotheses.”

She sighed and laced their fingers together where their hands lay. “I don’t want to fight about this.”

“I don’t either.” His fingers curled tight around hers, fitting together like wickerwork. “If money were no object…”

“We’ll make do,” she assured him. “No need to cut our noses off to spite our faces, after all.”

Donald sighed. “That is a habit of mine, isn’t it?”

“Let’s just say I’m glad you’re not licensed to carry a rapier. Noses would be flying all over the place.”

“If I could _lift_ one to begin with, which I strongly doubt.”

“What?” Celia’s face was stricken with feigned horror. “ _No_. So all the horseback riding and polo playing your father dragged you through…”

“Have in no way prepared me to wield an actually useful weapon. Shocking, I know. My scrawny arms were nearly as disappointing to my father as my choice of career.” He flopped out an arm to demonstrate, wiggling it in the air.

“I like your arms just the way they are. Especially—“she reached for the floppy arm and planted it firmly around her waist—“when they’re like this.”

And before he could answer, she kissed him.

Blimey. They could be together for a hundred years, Donald thought, and every kiss would feel as new and marvellous as their first. Celia could kiss him into oblivion, into boyhood, into a blushing mess of teeth and tongue; not knowing where to put his hands, wanting to put them everywhere at once. He sank into her on instinct, sweet muscle memory of her body resting against his until the kiss was over. They looked at each other, catching their breaths.

“We’ll find a way,” she whispered with the sort of tenderness that only shows its face at night. “I don’t care what happens to us. As long as we’re together when it happens.”

Donald nodded. “Together.”

“You’re never getting rid of me. And that _is_ a threat.”

“Yes, I believe we’ve got it in writing somewhere.” He let his fingers comb through her hair, a sheet of black spilling down the mattress. “And my father—frosty bugger that he may have been—did leave us enough to get by for a while yet.”

She smiled. “God rest his soul and may he never walk at night.”

“Oh God. If we weren’t already calling it the Problem, _that_ would be reason enough on its own.”

“I pity the agent.” Celia snuggled closer to him, resting her hand against his chest. “We’ll talk about funding when we get home, yeah? The Orpheus thing, too. I promise.”

Donald nodded. “It’s a dull conversation anyway. Save it for somewhere duller than here.” He took a breath; the scents of the rainforest drifted in on the breeze. “Like London.”

“You love London.”

“I don’t love _London_. I love Portland Row. I love King’s College. I love Battersea Park when it’s sunny. I love the chip shop on the corner of Gloucester Place. I love Jess.”

“And?”

“And I love you,” he said, smiling. “Rather a lot.”

“I love you too.” Her eyes met his, bright and brilliant. “Let’s have another baby.”

Something inside Donald rocked violently sideways. He had never actually had a bomb drop on top of him before, but he imagined the sensation wasn’t too far off from this. As with most bombardments, the world fell silent after the impact. Outside, a cicada struck up a trill.

“What?” His voice had been sinking to a whisper. Now it sprang back up like a fat kid’s seesaw. He stared at his wife, and she stared back, her lips drawn as if holding back a laugh; then she rolled on top of him, her long hair pouring over his chest, one knee coming to rest between his legs…

At which point the situation became rather, er, imminent.

“I’ve just decided,” she said matter-of-factly. “I want another one.”

“Well, _that_ was a snap decision,” he said. “Any chance of me getting a say, Mrs. Lockwood?”

“I’m considering it.” She dove down to peck his lips. “Mr. Lockwood.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, propping her up against him with a little hop; the wards around the cot jingled in response. “So that’s what you were thinking about, was it? With The Face and all.”

“If I’ve been making The Face every time I’ve thought about this, it’s a marvel you haven’t noticed recently.” Celia’s nose dipped close to his, nudging it affectionately. A lock of dark hair spilled onto Donald’s cheek.

“I have.” He brushed it back over her ear. “I just assumed you were contemplating a tricky passage in Hiri Motu, or perhaps a painless method of making Jess eat something green.”

“Nope. Don’t you think Jess would appreciate the company?”

“An ally in the war against vegetables? It would certainly strengthen her forces.”

“A little brother, Donald.”

He thought about it. “Yes. Yes, I believe she would.”

“And wouldn’t you?” Her eyes shone.

Honestly, he hadn’t given it much thought. With their busy schedules, hectic lifestyles, and Jessica’s sixth birthday coming up… At a certain point, he must have figured that was it.

Now he found he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. The attic at Portland Row was empty, with Jessica’s old crib gathering dust beneath its slanted eaves.

“I suppose I might,” he said.

Celia rolled back onto the mattress, resting casually on her elbow. “If you’re not keen,” she said with feigned indifference, “we _could_ just keep everything on and go to sleep instead. Like some married couple.”

“Well, that sounds a lot less fun.” He traced a finger along her collarbone, trailing his way down her shoulder. “What’s more,” he said, “we _are_ married, darling. Going on two years.”

“Oh.” Celia looked at her hand; a silver band gleamed like a tiny star around her finger. “Would you look at that? It seems we are.”

Donald smiled. “You know, we could try and nothing happens.”

“I suppose so.”

“Or we could have a baby, and then that baby grows up to be a mime or a chimney sweep or a bassoon player or something silly like that.”

“For all we know, he might grow up to solve the Problem.” Celia lay back, fixing her eyes to the ceiling. “Though I’ve heard the mime business is quite hot these days. Great benefits.”

“I’ll take that over dealing with the Problem,” he admitted. “I don’t know that I’d want my child to be an agent. Not exactly a low-risk occupation, is it?”

“Probably up there with being a Mexican revolutionary.”

“My point exactly.”

“I’m _teasing_ you.” She bumped her shoulder against his. “You’re such a worryguts. Not much psychic Talent running in our family, is there? Well, except for…”

“Yes.” Donald smiled wistfully. His older brother had seen ghosts in his youth. Little Donald (to whom ghosts only ever appeared as hazy, silent blurs) would always pester him for details. But though his brother’s Sight had been excellent, his physical fortitude had not. Shortly after Jessica’s birth, his heart had given out. Donald kept his old hunting knife on a shelf at Portland Row; of all the marvellous things that adorned their house, that was his favourite one.

Celia put a hand to his cheek, nudging him fondly. “I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “Jessica isn’t exactly showing any signs of being the next Marissa Fittes. She’s got it into her head that the apple tree in our garden is a ‘friendly ghost,’ and the apples are its fingers.”

Donald knitted his brow. “So _that’s_ why she got so cross when I asked her to go apple picking.”

“Whatever she ends up doing when she grows up, I reckon she’s safe from ghosts.” She gave an airy laugh. “Well, as safe as any of us are. And you and I may as well have been born two hundred years old for all the Talent we had. It’ll be a genetic miracle if our son qualifies for the bloody Night Watch.”

“How do you know it’ll be a boy, anyway?”

“Just a feeling.”

Donald didn’t argue. He knew from experience that his wife’s hunches were usually correct—at least when it came to personal matters. Their disagreement about the Orpheus Society would be a squabble for another day. He lay back next to her and said, “What would we name him, then?”

“What would _you_ name him?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. I wasn’t aware we were having another baby until approximately four minutes ago.”

“Come now, darling,” she said, giving him that wide grin he loved. “ _I_ named Jess, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” he said, cracking a smile in return. “By blurting out ‘Jessica’ first thing after fourteen hours of labour.”

“Exactly.”

“Whacked out on Pethidine.”

“Yes.”

“Shouting it at the poor nurse.”

“Well, perhaps if we prepare better this time, I won’t have to shout at anyone.”

“And what was it you told me when I tried to calm you down? ‘I’m already in pain all over’—“

“—‘and now you’re being a pain in my arse, too.’ I remember.”

“You are the most charming woman in the world, do you know that?” Donald sighed wistfully. “I _really_ haven’t got a clue. James? Benjamin? Anthony? Names are so permanent. He’ll be stuck with it forever.”

Celia’s smile, wide and quizzical, could have displaced every star in the sky. “He’ll be stuck with _you_ forever.”

“Oh, you’re a wit. Just like Jess.” Donald rolled atop his wife and pressed his lips against her neck, her arms curling about him as they laughed. “This family,”—a kiss under her ear—“needs another smartass,”—one to her jaw—“like it needs seven years of bad luck.”

It’s quite possible—quite likely—that Celia had another clever retort in mind for this. But before she could give it, he caught her lips in a kiss, and she kissed him back. She kissed him the way a flower opens, but faster; her lips were sweet and warm and soft as petals. He would have been happy to kiss her until the end of time, or at the very least until they both ran out of breath.

“Well,” she said softly when the kiss was over, “that felt like a yes to me.”

Donald smiled, nudging his nose against her cheek. “As long as you don’t make me choose a name tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. Names aren’t _that_ important. For instance, I don’t remember your mates at KCL ever calling you Donald.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Everyone called me Lockwood.”

They were still for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, a great surge crashed against the banks of the Sepik. And when Celia pulled Donald closer, the charms around their bed clinked together; a little psalm made of iron and silver.

They looked at each other.

“Are we doing this, then?” she whispered.

“Well,” he said softly, “you and Jessica _are_ the two great marvels of my life. I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to a third.”

The smile that Celia gave him then would have been worth dying for.

In it, Donald saw the beauty and wisdom he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. In her eyes, he saw himself. And everywhere he looked, he saw their daughter.

Something rushed inside him. It was like a typhoon; the typhoon of loving each other, of loving Jessica, of knowing they had put something beautiful and alive into the world. A tiny, infinite miracle. To do it again felt as natural as breathing.

Yes, there was fear, relentless fear. The sort of fear no one can prepare you for. It crept over him every time the sun went down, every time Jessica messed about with a supernatural artefact or climbed up a windowsill to check the garden for ghosts. Having a family was inviting death into your life, allowing yourself to be touched by it—because there was someone you couldn’t bear to lose. It was a heavy thing.

But it was also when love was at its realest.

And the love, Donald knew, was so much more powerful than the fear. So much stronger than death. Having a family had taught him that, too.

The most precious things in life were also the most vulnerable. Why? Because to be vulnerable is to be alive. It is the very mark of existence. And if it were true that there was another side, a parallel realm where no living person would dare to venture—he wanted to go there having left a brilliant bloody mark on the side of the living.

In the small hours of the night, under a starlit New Guinean sky, Celia and Donald Lockwood wrapped themselves around each other until not a single gap was left between them.

And after, in a world of glowing warmth, early sunlight filtering through the hut, Celia sat up. Blankets were pooled about her waist; Donald cast a sleepy glance up at her, bathed in the golden light of morning.

His wife smoothed a hand over her stomach and smiled.

“Anthony,” she said.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was supposed to be Lockwood fluff, but a bit of ethnology snuck in there. I can’t imagine Celia and Donald would object.
> 
> 1) Papua New Guinea is one of the most culturally and geographically diverse countries in the world. It’s home to more than a thousand indigenous groups, many of which did not come into contact with the West until the 19th century. I sent Celia and Donald on a visit to Kanganamun in the East Sepik Province, smack along the middle course of the great Sepik River. I imagine this watery location would serve quite well to keep spirits at bay! Flo Bones would have a field day.
> 
> 2) Stroud is vague, but he shows his research. Ancestor worship is an important part of New Guinean tribal culture. Spirits are kept safe in large and elaborate _haus tambarans_ , or spirit-huts, and are supposedly tied to sacred carvings and other _tambu_ (spiritual or forbidden) objects—that’s Sources to you and me. Shamans really do perform rituals inside these sacred huts, where they supposedly communicate with the ghosts of their ancestors. Most often, though, the huts are used for village meetings and male initiation ceremonies. Women aren’t traditionally allowed inside, though exceptions are made for visitors.
> 
> 3) Artefacts, totems and masks are used in festive dances in and around the haus tambarans. These protect the village against spirits, much like iron and silver. They also use _garamuts_ , ceremonial drums carved into animals that represent important ancestors. The people understand the sound of the drum as a psychical “voice”! Kanganamun is famous for its Cassowary dance, which is performed by children in feathered costumes similar to the one Quill Kipps ends up wearing. Spirit-capes seem to be Stroud’s invention, though.
> 
> If you've made it this far, thanks for reading. Be safe out there!


End file.
